


Forbidden fruit a Flavor Has

by middlemarch



Series: Daffodil Universe [7]
Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: American Civil War, Baking, F/M, Gambling, Gen, Music, Romance, Secrets, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 06:05:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6644305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary has more friends than Jedediah appreciates-- and more secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forbidden fruit a Flavor Has

Miss Emma Green in a pink muslin dress with a full basket of ripe strawberries on her arm was the prettiest sight Mary could imagine. She could remember other experiences of loveliness but they lacked the contrast Emma presented; Mary had seen beautiful things in a world she found beautiful, but Emma’s fresh face was an enchantment against the backdrop of the dusty streets, the rank scent of clotting blood and the sweet rot of gangrene, the infinite variation in suffering Mansion House held. It was as if Emma had broken this world open and allowed the rosy light of another’s dawn to pour through. She was entirely arresting; Mary paused to watch her, swaying like a little anemone in the wind, and did not even consider the picture she could make of her with her pencil and watercolors. 

Mary observed she was not the only one to be so affected. She had heard Henry Hopkins, praying a few beds away with a man near to extreme unction, softly exhale, “Oh, dear God” upon Emma’s appearance. She was not sure of the significance of his comment; he might be giving thanks for such a vision, giving voice to a carefully guarded desire, or expressing despair at the unlikelihood of ever attaining his heart’s desire. He was always so correct in his behavior to Miss Green, though she had found him to be more flexible in his approach to the men, and she suspected he relied on the formality of manners to manage his unanticipated response to Miss Green. There had been one or two others times when she had glimpsed a look in his eyes she recognized and a brief touch of hands as telling as an embrace. She saw how he redoubled his efforts with the men and she knew how he strove to make his Christian duty sustain him. She hoped that today Miss Green brought him a moment of unalloyed happiness.

Mary finished the dressing she had been changing and discarded the stained bandage in the basket due for the laundry. Before moving on to her next task, she would discover the story of the strawberries. She and Emma had progressed to an unexpected friendship; they had found common ground in caring for such sick men and had been thrown together as more similar to each other, well-brought up young women from families of a certain standard, than they were to the battalion of nuns. Neither had found Nurse Hastings eager for a comrade-in-arms or acolyte and they had both learned to give her a wide berth when she seemed in danger of being flambéed. Both Mary and Emma had sisters; their position within their families, Mary as youngest and Emma as the elder, had helped moderate the difference in their ages and roles within the hospital. Mary found some comfort in knowing Emma might catch her eye when the screams of the men grew too loud or when the silent glares between Hale and Jed grew too icy, portending an eruption. Emma had grown accustomed to seeking Mary out for small matters she wouldn’t be willing to trouble another with. There had been one day when Emma arrived with a pair of cabbage roses tucked in her sash and had cautiously offered one to Mary; its heady fragrance throughout the day had been a continuous reminder to Mary of Emma’s proposed amity.

“Miss Green,” she called out. Emma was walking more slowly than usual, careful not to spill the berries, nor to smear her dress. She had stopped wearing her crinoline, willing to be an informal adherent to Miss Dix’s rules, but her skirts were still full with many petticoats. Mary thought Emma did not own a dull dress; they were all the colors of a New England spring or smartly striped, most trimmed with copious flounces or point lace. Her manches de lustrine covered the delicate sleeves and cuffs of her dress with heavier grey silk, tied with black velvet ribbons, unlike Mary’s serviceable linen or linsey-woolsey pairs. A younger Mary might have felt envy for Emma’s elegant wardrobe but now she only enjoyed seeing the younger woman retain some butterfly brightness, a proxy for high spirits that the staff and the men had been sorely lacking recently.

“Miss Green?” she called again.

“Yes, Nurse Mary?” Emma replied, all dulcet tones. Mary suspected Emma possessed other timbres, but she was unsure of what was needed to provoke them. She had realized that the South, even as far north as Alexandria, was another country with its own ways; she did hope, as Jed did, that it was not another Nation. 

“I cannot help but notice that you are laden down with the biggest basket of strawberries I could imagine,” she said, letting her smile color her voice.

“Yes, well, we have quite an extensive kitchen garden and evidently there has been a, a bumper crop of strawberries and my, that is, our Belinda said I might bring some here, for the boys. She thought it would cheer them, to have that taste of summer she said, so I thought I might,” Emma ended, a bit hesitant, as if Mary or anyone in the house, even the unlamented Bullen, would have rejected such riches. Mary spared a solitary thought for Bullen—if he had still been steward, she knew no solider, grey or blue, would have tasted even one berry. Her faith, using the voice of her mother, scolded her a bit for that uncharitable conclusion but she pushed it aside, accepting the truth for what it was. Bullen’s death, however it had come about, had not rendered his life more virtuous. He may have been able to play a Scotch air with the tenderness of a bard, but he remained a despicable man, his life consumed with his own advancement and appetites at the expense of others.

“Oh, yes! I am so glad—it will be such a treat. But I think we must find a place for that basket or we risk a great mess. I think the larder in the kitchen below—it is coolest there and the fruit will keep best. Did you have a plan in mind for the berries?” Mary kept pace with Emma as the walked down the hallway and the stairs to the kitchen below. The room was always cool, half cellar with its windows foreshortened by the foundation. The light came in always at a trickle, never a flood, even on the brightest days. 

“I hadn’t thought… I have little experience in the kitchen, beyond helping Mamma make the menus, whatever you think is best, I am sure,” Emma said, seemingly embarrassed by both her lack of knowledge and her awareness that she did not possess it because of her wealth and status.

“Well, I think a pie, several pies that is, will work the best. We will be able to stretch the fruit farther and every one who wants will be able to get a piece—I think you have brought a good three pounds and we should be able to get three or four good sized pies from that, even if we have to used some dried apple to help with the filling. I believe we have enough of everything else we need. I will set aside a few hours this afternoon and then we may serve them tonight. Oh, Emma, how pleased they will be! Thank you. I think you have noticed how hard, it’s been so hard,” she broke off as Emma placed one hand atop hers, an acknowledgement, excusing her from further explanation. Mary gave her a little smile, then glanced upwards as a shout seeped down the stone walls. It was likely another boy with another agony, but there had been a quality to the sound that reminded her of Jed, the bull-elephant bellow he made when he was truly and wholly irate, generally with Hale. She didn’t dare tarry longer; she watched as Emma placed the basket on the larder shelf, then quickly covered it herself with a blue striped cloth. There was another noise, this time a duet, terrified boy and exasperated Jed, and she knew she would have to move at speed, without breaking into the run Miss Dix disapproved of so much.

 

* * * * * * * * * * *

Jed had been in the state of total absorption he was able to reach with a truly intricate or interesting medical problem, in this case, a tricky and delicate surgery on a boy’s eye, when the sounds began to intrude. He shook them off at first, more concerned with trying to solve the problem of the partially shattered orbit, the mille-feuille layers of muscle and skin cradling the egg-white sclera. The iris was hazel, dappled like the changing leaves, and Jed wished the boy’s lashes were not quite so long, though if Jed succeeded, the boy was sure to get use of them with the young ladies. He swore, under his breath, wishing for a magnifying glass and finer tools, an angled retractor, the gold-plated forceps he’d used in Paris. Christ, if he was wishing, he’d wish for Helmholtz’s ophthalmoscope—enough on its own to define the man’s genius, let alone being only one of the many scientific innovations the man seemed to shed like an oak its acorns, prolific and generative. The blood had slowed in its journey over the boy’s bruised cheekbone and Jed was carefully threading the silk through the plump young flesh when the noises started to resolve into voice. 

He lifted his head and let his hands apply the dressing, so familiar with the process it hardly needed his attention. He saw the three women standing across the room; it was one of the larger rooms, formerly a reception room with large windows cutting through the blue silk wallpaper to intersperse the sky’s uniform azure. His ear filtered out the commonplace—the wet coughs of brewing pneumonias, the creak of uncomfortable men shifting on thin mattresses, the murmur of battles and speculation—to note the music of the female voices. Right now, they made surprisingly lovely Lieder; Mary and Anne’s voices counterpoint, Emma’s Southern contralto striving to bring a harmony line. Anne’s Dugazon soprano, those glassy British vowels, was ever on attack and Mary’s richer mezzo allowed her distress to appear through her growing coloratura. He was becoming ever more expert in Mary and her moods; she was angry now but also surprised, disbelief entering her register. And then, then a quality he thought only he at Mansion House would note— disappointment, a sense that she was utterly crestfallen, through she would cover it as quickly as she could. Emma’s voice again now, more powerfully soothing and he revised his opinion; there was one other here who paid such attention to his Mary, though from a milder source of affection, milk to his meat. He was done with the boy who was already sedated with a dose of morphine that wouldn’t have touched Jed in months. He set his equipment in its scuffed leather case aside and started walking toward the trio. His brain suggested “the Graces” for them, but he snorted and thought Erinyes seemed more apt as even Emma’s face had flushed, becomingly, of course, and her chin had tilted with the first sign of hostility.

“Nurse Hastings, I don’t think it was such an unexpected question for Nurse Mary to ask,” Emma said firmly, in a tone Jed suspected she had previously saved for ill-favored suitors or when she was trying to convince her father to permit her a liberty her mother had denied.

“Why I should stand for such an interrogation and over something so inconsequential, to think that the head nurse of this hospital would stoop,” Anne said, imperiously, and then more forcefully, “Would stoop-- to haranguing me, who worked with Florence Nightingale herself--”

“Nurse Hastings, I fail to see what Miss Nightingale has to do with the question at hand. Which is, if you recall, whether you ate the strawberries Miss Green so kindly brought and which were intended for the patients in this hospital.” Mary paused, taking a breath. Jed also took a breath, trying to avoid releasing the guffaw he felt. Strawberries? Could they truly be this incensed over a basket of berries? He expected Mary to have a wry look about her, eyebrows quirked with the humor of it, but saw she was in earnest. In earnest and also, she seemed fatigued. She stood in as much of a slump as she allowed herself on the wards, which meant there was a subtle droop to her shoulders. 

“Fine, yes, well, yes, I ate them,” Anne replied, apparently planning to brazen it out. Why she needed to brazen out eating some strawberries, Jed could hardly imagine. He felt an unwelcome sympathy for Anne. She had eaten some berries; why was Mary so distraught?

“You ate three pounds of strawberries? In a quarter-hour?” Mary exclaimed; although she had asked the question, she clearly had not believed an affirmative response to be possible. Emma gasped. Jed was taken aback. It did seem an inordinate amount of fruit to consume, for anyone, and in so short a time! He peered at Anne—there was not even a stain on her pinafore or smear of juice by her mouth. Well, he could add gluttony to the list of sins Anne Hastings had mastered. He also absently considered Hale was a greater fool than he had previously thought, entering into a mésalliance with such a devilish woman. Three pounds of strawberries! And she looked as if she hadn’t turned a hair.

“Did you truly?” This was Emma. Jed allowed himself a smile. She sounded aghast, as if Anne had admitted to murder or incest.

“Jesus Christ, our bloody Lord in Heaven!” Anne nearly shouted. Jed quickly glanced around, to make sure there were no nuns about, or at least, not the Mother Superior. He was sure if there had been, Anne’s obscene declaration would have resulted in a panic of fainting, like a dozen dominoes down in one fell swoop. “I was hungry and I ate the strawberries! Were they communion wafers? The bloody body of Christ?”

“They were not for you!” Mary declared, her anger evident. Although the women were across the room, close to the threshold, their argument was now starting to attract attention from the men. Jed wondered whether he should intervene, but decided that short of a cataclysm, he would not. Mary had been quite clear with him about her ideas about free will and equality and would not look kindly upon him trying to settle the situation, a white knight riding in on a prancing steed. He thought that there was little about him of Galahad and Anne was enough of a horse’s ass without adding another. 

“Oho, then! How would anyone know that?” Anne had decided to go on the offensive now. Emma had backed away from the two older women; Jed thought he might entice her to assist in nearly any surgery at this very moment in opposition to remaining party to the great strawberry debacle.

“No one else in this hospital would eat an entire three pounds of fresh strawberries in one sitting! Did you even sit? You-- No one else would be so sel--” here Mary caught herself, but probably not soon enough. Mary took a deep breath, glancing at Emma who offered a small smile, “Miss Green brought that fruit for everyone in the hospital and I was going to spend the afternoon making pies with it, so everyone could enjoy her gift. Her gift, Nurse Hastings—the Army sends us salted beef and flour, coffee, not fresh food. Her gift and her family’s for a hospital of wounded men who’ve barely had anything truly nourishing in I don’t know how long. And now, you, only you—I hope you--” she broke off, her temper running down. Jed knew her well enough to understand that while her mind said, “I hope you are sorry,” her passionate heart was crying out, “I hope you sicken with it!” That she said neither aloud was most like her, his Molly, always considering the impact of her words and actions and what would bring the greatest good to the largest number of people. She had been under duress recently, they all had, but still she would remember that there was not another nurse of Anne’s caliber at Mansion House and it would not do for the men to have Anne at her throat.

“Pie? Strawberry pie?” She uttered the words as if Mary had proposed serving arsenic custard to the men. It appeared Anne would be at Mary’s throat regardless and, in typical Anne fashion, she had seized onto a relatively minor point of argument that she would then harp on until everyone else tired and either appeased her or fled. It was enough. Jed prepared to face Mary’s weakened wrath rather than let this go on, for Mary’s sake and the men. Poor little Miss Green, who had just hoped to do a good deed, didn’t deserve this either. He would say something, anything, and take comfort from the resolution and the knowledge he could regale the chaplain later and bring a grin to that too-solemn face.  
The day continued to surprise Jed. Before he could step forward and be the horse’s ass he had wanted to avoid, Anne lobbed one final insult, before turning on her heel, “Pie? Phinney, you Colonial barbarian! They were strawberries—they call for a proper tart!”

Jed choked. Mary turned at looked at him and shrugged. She tilted her head slightly in the direction of Anne’s departure and he understood her; Anne was a strange force of nature, contrary and vehement, and Mary rued the acrimonious engagement, as she would rue battling a hurricane or a rabid raccoon, but she hadn’t been able to resist the impulse. The amusement and invigoration she would generally derive from such an encounter were missing. Mary walked out the room, more slowly than was her wont, and he saw her square her shoulders and lift her chin, the Baroness he had once expected. Where had his Molly gone?

* * * * * * * * * *

Jed had to admit to himself he was confused. He sat near his latest patient, a man from New Jersey whose breathing he was ostensibly monitoring, and turned his true attention to Mary. Anne’s final sally as she exited the room, “A proper tart!” should have drawn, at the very least, an exasperated smile from her. He had frankly expected her to burst out laughing and the silence with which she had met the exclamation had kept him and the men around him, who had finally all been drawn into the patisserie tete a tete, from the chorus of snickers and chortles that had been looming. What ailed her? 

It had been very busy at the hospital lately—a steady flow of greater numbers of men and boys, more severe injuries and a pitiable run of erisypelas leading to a higher mortality rate than they had in previous months. There had been less time to spare for anything not directly related to patients and Jed had not been alone with Mary for more than a few moments since the few weeks ago in the garden. Oh, Mary’s garden! She had seemed content for several days, engaged in tending the growing plants as she did the men, a smile on her face for everyone; she had a certain way of looking just at him, more tender than a simple smile, her sweet mouth ready to offer a kiss. When she could, she made clear the depth of her affections; one night, she had stroked his cheek with her slender hand, then cupped his bearded jaw closely, when she found him sleeping at a patient’s bedside. Another pale grey morning, she had only said “Jedediah,” taking his hand in hers and holding it against her beating heart, her full breast, before she let it go and moved neatly to her work, her cheeks flushed like a peach.

His first impression of her, when she leapt with him onto the murderous patient, was of headstrong, reckless passion. He had learned how she guarded the powerful urges that drove her, channeled where she could, suppressed where she could not. He knew more now of the losses she had sustained before the War and Mansion House, the dragging fear that she transmuted into a boundless hopefulness and he realized how the past few weeks had diminished her. Boys died, every day, and generally not well. There was more delirium and shrieking and sometimes worse-- the silence of men beyond sound, trapped so far in their suffering they seemed in Hell, irredeemable. He and Hale had action to console them; surgeries they might embark on without much idea of success, orders to give, their endless, pointless feud. Jed had a brief flare of warmth for the antipathy he carried towards Hale, the relief the ordinary loathing brought. 

Mary and Anne spent as much, if not more time, with the injured men and had fewer outlets for their vicarious suffering. Neither had another to look after her effectively, though he so wished to! Each approached the situation in her usual way. Anne had become more intemperate and abrupt. Her immoderate consumption of the strawberries was both the gratification of a whim and a provocation, ideally and successfully of Mary, her chosen nemesis, but he believed she would have happily engaged Lincoln or Jeff Davis, had either been available. Mary, sweet Mary decided if she couldn’t win a war, she would find a battle she could; she could not save these men, she could not have what she’d claimed was her heart’s desire, so she would make a batch of pies and take solace in making sick men happy for a few minutes with the memory of home and childhood and summer. Emma had seen this in Mary and provisioned her, and then Anne had taken it from her. He thought of the letter he’d sent and the letter received; he determined to give Mary what he could. He rarely left the confines of the hospital or its grounds these days so he would need to seek assistance.

* * * * * * * * * * *

He had not imagined it would be quite so difficult to replace a basket of strawberries in Virginia in the late spring. He did not want to trouble Miss Green again and was confident it was a problem he could solve readily; he had forgotten how easy it was for him to be wrong. As he had scant experience with household management, beyond discussing the accounts with Eliza from time to time, he had little context for peacetime provisioning but he sensed that the War had made what had previously been mildly challenging into a Herculean task. He had asked a few orderlies in the hallway about where he might make a purchase and had gained no useful information. However, significant amount of mutual enjoyment appeared to be had by the flabbergasted staff and for himself, he appreciated their operatic arc of fear, dismay and relief when he did not threaten evisceration for their lack of help. He would have to turn to Matron Brannan, a prospect he had hoped to avoid. She was likely to oblige but at what cost? Probably both coin and her own Irish-inflected schadenfreude would need accounting before progress could be made. He thought of Mary’s tired face and her reaction to a tray of glossy, golden pies, strawberry juice staining the slits and crimped crust; Matron Brannan it would have to be.

After some reconnoitering, he found her on the third floor where the officers’ rooms were. She was leaning against the wall, though a chair was beside her, eyes half-lidded. Her face was relaxed and he saw the lines it wanted to fall into, the traces of grins around her eyes, the nasolabial fold crisp, a dimple he had never noticed. Her cap was slightly askew and she swayed a bit to the violin music he heard. He looked about—they were outside Summers’ room, the door ajar; even closed, he would have been able to hear the melodies, as Summers flitted from airs to hymns, even a bit of martial concerto. He wasn’t shocked exactly, but he’d never really thought about either Summers or Matron outside the boundaries of their roles. He heard Eliza exclaim, “Oh, Jed! You never do pay attention to anything that doesn’t directly affect you!” He had shrugged it off as another of her feminine complaints, her vanity inconsequential in comparison to his quest for scientific advancement, his patriot’s commitment to the Union, but now he credited her. The music grew a little softer, lilting— how Summers could play! He began to speak, “Matron--”

“Hush! He’s still playing. Sure, he may be a half-decent surgeon and can put up with the passel of you squabbling, but the man was wasted, wasted without a fiddle. I’m glad that fiddle belonged to a Reb else Bullen’s ‘confiscation’ might have posed a pretty problem, like those sweet cakes,” she went on. Jed knew he was goggle-eyed. Summers was a virtuoso and Matron knew every transgression in the place! Anne had eaten three pounds of strawberries in fifteen minutes! What next? He hoped every new revelation would be of a similar significance; he felt sure she was aware of his feeling for Mary, but not hers in return. 

“Why can’t you leave a poor old woman in peace for a few minutes, my fine boyo? Hmm, it’s always this way with you, tisn’t it, the first man to have any idea, cock of the walk since you were in dresses, I’ll hazard!” Matron glared at him and Jed felt a childish desire to run from her, wondering if she kept a switch in one of her capacious pockets.

“I’ll just,” he tried, thinking there must be another he could appeal to. Even going to Mrs. Green directly, as long as he wore a fresh vest and tied his cravat so, would be easier than this.

“Well, now, you’ve interrupted, you might as well tell me, no, you’re to ask now, aren’t you? Out with it, since you’ve scotched m’pleasure here,” she went on. He saw she tempered her harsh words with a bit of a twinkle and he relaxed. She was a tough old bird but none could touch her for managing the hospital and she made it clear she preferred a man with a quick wit and a firm hand. He once again thanked God for providing Hale as such a clearly deficient alternative to his own flawed self.

“Matron, I deeply apologize for disturbing you during this… impromptu recital,” he said most politely, seeing immediately she enjoyed his supplication, “But, you see, I do not know where else to turn. There has been an issue in the kitchens, a discrepancy…”

“Dr. Foster, if you will get to it before I’m settled in my grave! I’ll have the short of it, and now!”

“Miss Green brought several pounds of strawberries for the men, Nurse Mary had meant to make them into pies but Nurse Hastings has eaten them all and I don’t know for the life of me where I can get more, so Mary can make those pies as she wants to. Just that.” He supposed he should bask in the recitation of a dilemma so frivolous; it was a small compensation.

“Annie ate three pounds of strawberries? Ha! I guess the whiskey will be soothing a sore belly tonight, for a change. But, you’re wanting to get more, you said, for your Nurse Mary to play pat-a-cake and make some pies? Ah, Mary, Mary, quite contrary… You’re a good man, Jed Foster, though I keep my eye upon you, and you surely have the size of her, no flowers or gew-gaws wanted there. I guess your post has been to your liking then?” Jed found he followed her easily, but hoped no other could; she’d ended with a smile, kinder than he anticipated, but he meant to hold her off from his private matters as best he could.

“The berries, Matron? Please?” He looked her directly in the eye and saw she took his measure.

“Sure, I would help you if I could, boyo, but I’ve not heard of any fine fruit at the market. Miss Green brought them from her home, I’d wager. If you want strawberries, you’ll need to find someone who wants to sell… you might try Samuel, he seems to know his way about Alexandria. You could have asked Bullen in his day, but odds were he’d’ve laughed you to Kingdom Come first, the nasty devil, God help him.” She nodded then, indicating the conversation had concluded. He saw no purpose in lingering. The music had died down during their discussion and they had made a bargain they could both live with, the merit of his object securing her silence and even approbation. 

* * * * * * * * * * *

 

It was evening before he could find Samuel. The rest of the day had been hurried along with two post-operative hemorrhages. The older man had survived, the boy had not. He glimpsed Mary once or twice, working steadily as the shadows lengthened, the plaid of her dress disappearing as night fell. He did not see her at the officers’ table for supper, though Anne Hastings was there, tucking in as if she hadn’t eaten all day. He supposed he might meet Mary before she retired for the night and could make sure she’d had something, even just a biscuit and tea. He thought of all the ways he had cared for Eliza, whom he had loved only a little, and the few avenues open to him for Mary. 

He found Samuel cleaning instruments at a large basin, a lamp beside him. As always, he admired Samuel’s agility; he was a large man with strong hands but he handled the slim retractors and wicked scalpels with a delicacy Hale had never, could never, manage. 

“Mr. Diggs, a moment?” he began, as Samuel put down a pair of forceps that wouldn’t have been used on a mule in Paris.

“Dr. Foster?” Samuel replied, in his default tone of utter neutrality.

“I am hoping you can help me with a task requiring some… subtlety?” Jed said.

“Doctor?” Jed knew Samuel’s approach had served him well in many situations, but the gravity seemed largely disproportionate to the request he planned, adding to Jed’s sense of absurdity.

“Mr. Diggs, Samuel, have you heard today’s tale of the strawberries?” At least he could entertain the man a bit. Like Mary, Samuel worked exceedingly hard with minimal rest, thanks or acknowledgement.

“Dr. Foster?” This time, Samuel had caught the whiff of comedy and settled in, back resting against the large basin.

“Oh, well, there is no way to tell this tale without sounding a complete fool. Miss Green brought a large basket of strawberries to Mansion House and Nurse Mary had planned to make them into pies. Nurse Hastings, well, she ate them all and now I am trying to get Nurse Mary more strawberries but Matron Brannan says there are none at the market, but that you might know where to find some.” Yes, he had sounded an utter nincompoop.

“How many?” Samuel asked.

“Well, Nurse Hastings ate three pounds--” he began.

“Lord Almighty!” Samuel tried but couldn’t contain the laugh that accompanied his exclamation. “So,” he paused to contain the hitch from the laughter, “You are looking for around three pounds of fresh strawberries so Nurse Mary can make a half dozen pies? Begging your pardon, Dr. Foster, but when’s she goin’ to do that? The oven here is finicky, it’ll take her hours.”

Jed considered the point. Like nearly every point Samuel made, it was accurate and insightful and something Jed felt he should have already thought about. He added Samuel to his tally of the friends who knew Mary well, friends he might emulate. Mary was drawn by the end of every day lately and he supposed she wasn’t sleeping well, certainly not long enough. While she might indeed enjoy the domesticity of preparing the pies herself, her primary goal had been pleasing the men and his aim was to bring her some happiness, not add to her labor.

“Mr. Diggs, you are invaluable. I restate my question: can you help me find a way to get a half dozen strawberry pies made and delivered to Mansion House without letting Nurse Mary know?” That was better, he thought.

“Well, I guess I could go ‘round, there’s a few people…” Samuel trailed off.

“No, that won’t work, we can’t spare you from the hospital. Isn’t there a likely boy you could find, trustworthy, who could act as a sort of messenger for you?” Jed suggested. A few hours without Samuel would be a much greater burden on Mary, and honestly, on himself, than Jed was willing to accept.

“Yes, I think I could, there’s a boy, Isaac, hangs around the laundry but he’s real polite and quick. I think I’d have to send him to Miss Green’s Belinda though if you want to get these berries soon. She’s sure to know who might be willing to sell if you’re willing--” he broke off.

“To pay? Of course I’m willing to pay. You think it’ll be some time, though?” Jed replied.

“I do, Dr. Foster. To get the berries and then, if you want a good pie, you need to ask Belinda. She did that fancy dessert with the apples at the ball, I’ve heard, she’s said to have a light hand with pastry. It’ll likely take a few days at least to get her the supplies and for her to get the time to bake the pies,” Samuel said.

“Well, find your boy Isaac and let’s get started. And let’s send him to get some more playing cards for the men. They seem to like it well enough when they’re getting better and a little healthy competition, well, a little healthy anything round here wouldn’t go amiss,” Jed answered. He wasn’t entirely sure how Mary felt about cards and gambling, but it seemed to be each man’s choice from her Unitarian upbringing and he’d guess she’d see it as the lesser of evils if it could bring the boys some fun. The chaplain couldn’t play chess with them all and his sermons, while comforting, did little to raise a man’s spirits like the slap of the cards and clink of coins.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Samuel had been right. It had been ten days now and Belinda had sent word she’d have the pies ready by Sunday. They didn’t keep the Sabbath at Mansion House in any way Jed recognized from his childhood, but the prospect of an extra-fine dinner had a way of helping a man to see the hand of his Maker at work. In the meantime, morale was up, quite a bit actually, with the advent of a more regular card game. The healthier men congregated in a room deemed too small to hold a ward; they used it for overflow when they were inundated with injured men, but it was easy enough to clear out some beds and set up an old mahogany table, now liberally scarred and nicked, with a motley assortment of chairs. Jed had made sure there were several complete sets of cards, none tampered with. He worried a little about some of the boys getting fleeced, but thus far, it hadn’t seemed to be much of a problem. The game of choice was five card stud though black-jack was also popular. Nurse Hastings insisted on playing endless rounds of beggar-my-neighbour but she would not leave the men who were truly sick, so her presence at the table was generally a sign that there was no imminent danger to any patient. 

Jed found Mary at the card table more often than he would have expected. He admitted to being a bit disappointed; he’d hoped that with the men more occupied, there would be greater leeway for them to slip out to the veranda to watch the stars come out or share a cup of coffee. He liked to watch Mary wrap her two hands around the cup and inhale the steam; she would wrinkle her brow with pleasure before she drank. Sometimes, they shared one cup and she would always place her mouth where he had had his, looking at him over the rim with her big dark eyes to make sure he noticed.

Since the advent of the regular games, she’d spent more time at the card table. He had seen her join the men before, usually as a spectator, her bright smile something even the loser could take away if the pot was forfeit. Nearly every night, she’d been standing behind one boy or another, privy only to that player’s cards, but still lively and engaged. He marveled any boy could concentrate on the cards before him with Mary behind him, her slim waist and those wide skirts, her face lit like a candle. It took him a few nights of watching her from the doorway to see it; the hand lightly placed on a thin shoulder, a nudge of the chair with her knee, largely concealed by her dress, a little cough that could be caused by the fug of pipe smoke, but wasn’t. He would never have credited it-- Mary was a card sharp! He could not reconcile it with anything else he knew of her and disbelieved it at first. After the third night, when he had entirely convinced himself and the party had disbanded in equable spirits, he called her over as she went to leave the room.

“Nurse Mary, a minute of your time?” 

“Certainly, Dr. Foster.” They walked down the dimmed hallway toward the veranda. The men were in their beds and the moon had risen; the back windows glowed with lamplight and the scent of yellow jessamine was all about. They made their way to the veranda and stood next to each other at the railing; he did not take her hand in his and she looked at him, quizzical.

“Mary, what are you doing?” he asked. Jed had wondered first whether she would even accept card playing in the hospital and now to find her gambling and cheating! It was antithetical to everything he knew of her and he found it made him uneasy in a way her profession of love or challenge to his morality had not; he knew he was unfair as she had accepted him despite his pernicious addiction and attendant transgressions, but he found himself worrying about just who it was he loved so much.

“Jedediah?” Her voice lacked the confident warmth he now associated with his name in her mouth.

“I saw you. At the card table. I saw you, Mary—you were helping that boy cheat at cards, as you did Private Mather the night before, and Corporal Hunt before him. Do they give you a share of the take? Do you need money, Mary? Why didn’t you tell me?” He had tried to stay calm, but he heard his voice getting tighter and there was also the interrogatory cadence of his own dead father, the slip of the Chesapeake accent of his childhood.

“Jedediah, it is not what you think.” She sounded tired, he thought, more tired than he would have expected—where was the tension, the fear, the shame of being caught? Of her secret, revealed?

“Mary—Molly, tell me then. What am I to think? A Baroness, a head nurse, an upright Unitarian… a card sharp? Molly?” He moved now to cover her hand with his, but she pulled hers away and took a step back, facing him.

“It was all well and good for you to start the gaming at the hospital, Jed, but you are a rich man and always have been. How much money could you lose before you noticed? Would you even keep track of the size of the pot, the antes? Also, I think you have no taste for gambling, that chase after the fold, just one more hand to play, but it is not so for others…just as, as there might be some who would try the needle but once and then turn away, not be dragged under. There are boys here, young boys who oughtn’t be fighting yet but are, and their pay is the first money they’ve ever had, more money than they’ve ever had—and they stand to lose it all. They have already lost so much, their health, their innocence—I can’t watch them lose more. I won’t. Most of the antes are not too high but a few of the men, they’ve scented the weak ones. I am just-- I am putting it right, I make sure that no one leaves the table with too much more or less than they came with.” She dropped her hands to her sides. She was right—he hadn’t thought there could be any real trouble from the card games; the death and the dying, the inadequate treatments they had to offer were so much more concerning to him he had not thought about the men who would walk away with empty pockets. How it would feel to lie in a bed, awake and in pain, with your pay in the wallet of the man beside you. He stepped closer to Mary and took up both her hands, careful hands that always strove to put things to rights.

“You are right, Molly, you are right and I am wrong. Mistaken, unimaginative. But, how? How do you do it?” He moved a half step closer and put his left arm around her waist, drawing her into his side. She was close enough for him to feel her breath on his neck as she spoke.

“I, this is going to sound odd, and boastful-- Jed, I am good with numbers, I can see the plays and keep track, I have always been able to solve puzzles with numbers, the patterns they make.” Mary sounded embarrassed now, confessing to another talent. Christ, had she been born a man, what she could have achieved! What a scholar, a scientist! And yet, his arm around her and her dark eyes lit more by the low, heavy moon than the lamplight in the window, he did not regret her womanhood.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Molly?” he asked, then felt her stiffen in his arm; her temper was up but she was not leaving.

“Tell you? When would I have done that? What pressing need had you of my skill in mathematics? During which surgery, interrupting which order, rebutting which jibe would it have made sense to tell you? This was not a dark secret I concealed from you, Jedediah—only something I had not had the opportunity, or reason to share with you yet.” Her temper slaked by her exclamation, she resumed in the softer tone she used for their circumspect love-making, “Jedediah, I do not want to keep secrets from you. All I want is to be able to share everything with you, everything in my heart, my mind, my body. I want to tell my dreams to you late at night while you hold me in your arms, in… our bed, I want, oh, everything a wife wants, what I have had before, I want it with you, I want to be taken by you, to give you--” 

Jed kissed her then, needing to stem the rip-tide of her words, the passionate outpouring of love he could never deserve but perhaps might accept as grace. Her mouth was sweet and opened softly beneath his; she pulled at him with her lips, stroked his tongue with hers. His hand moved from her waist to the shell of stays at her ribs, upwards, without conscious thought, to caress her round breast. She gasped into his mouth and somehow moved closer. Her hand came up to his cheek, touched the softer skin below his eye before grasping his beard and jaw, holding him to her. Time fell away, like a day without shadow, and still they strove to be closer; Mary his equal in it, as never a woman had been, seeking the press of him against her mouth, breasts, her hips commanding his cock, Deborah ordering Barak to glory. Through this fog of desire, a clear beam of sunlight, her complete lovable dearness, pierced him and he stilled his mouth, pulling it away before he drew her closer, his hand cupping her head to his breast, where his heartbeat thudded like cannon-fire. They stood, her cheek to his heart as it would be if they lay together, breath regaining its usual measure.

Mary seemed content. Her arms were looped around him, an offered promise. He thought of secrets and his earlier accusation. She had not truly kept a secret but he had. He did. He remembered her face when she found him with the morphine, the flicker of revulsion before she exhorted him to fight. The long nights of withdrawal, she had been his only companion, even the North Star was blotted out by the screaming craving within him. Still, she gave him the balm of herself, honey and bitter herb in turn, recognizing his needs when he did not. 

Jed thought of secrets kept—the letter from Eliza locked away in his room. She had acknowledged his request but had not responded yay or nea, stating her mother was ill, very ill, with a fever caught travelling and Eliza could make no decision before her mother’s illness was resolved. It was everything and nothing. He hoped because she had not refused and he was hopeless because there was nothing he could say until she wrote again. He would have to write—he was still her husband and she was owed his recognition, his acceptance that she must pick the time, she must make the choice. His honor demanded that, even beyond the grounds of the law. Eliza would decide; that was his choice. He would not have such a good response to Mary if she questioned why he hadn’t told her at this time, that time, the time yet to come. But he knew he would not tell her tonight— he would not tell her until what he could say was defined, clear, the source of rejoicing or a goad to reinvention.

He stroked her hair, the gesture of a fond husband; the complicated braids familiar to him though he longed to feel it all down her back, a tumble of curls, unrestrained. He thought of the letter received and the letter he must write. She was nestled against him, tranquil now. He felt equanimity descend on him, the natural order asserting itself. He tried to imagine her face when the pies were brought, but he saw only her face when they had kissed, when he had opened his eyes for a moment—she gleamed like a pearl, her entire concentration brought to his mouth, blind and intent.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Mary was talking quietly with Emma when the pies arrived. Emma was arrayed like a flower again, sprigged violets rendering her a dark Freyja, Gustav’s favorite of the old gods. Someone jostled the front doors open and a boy walked in, a bit scrawny but neat, carrying an enormous tray covered in freshly baked pies. Orderlies had already gone to meet him and take the tray, really just a large plank of roughly finished wood, in the few minutes it took for Emma and Mary to walk over.

“Mmmm. Strawberry, I think, Nurse Mary,” Emma said, enjoying the lush fragrance, the hint of vanilla and nutmeg, the butter of the pastry. 

“Wherever did they come from? Whoever has done this?” Mary asked, her voice made younger with the surprise. Emma thought this might have been the Mary of Christmas mornings.

“Well, I think our Belinda has had a hand in them, at least—that is the way she pricks out the pie-crust, she likes to make it look like a flower she says, keep it pretty,” Emma replied.

“This is just—I didn’t think. The boys will be so pleased. We should put them away, though, quickly, before Nurse Hastings--” Emma had hardly known Mary to be so inarticulate. Even in the most difficult situations, she could be counted upon to remain clear, direct, words neat as her hands. She hoped Dr. Foster was about to see Mary’s reaction, though she suspected there was nothing that could endear her further to him. She enjoyed a moment of sentimental melancholy at their ill-starred courtship, a respite from her own unsettled ruminations about Frank, more conspirator than suitor, and the chaplain, so handsome, so good, such a Yankee, her best enemy. Well, at least there were a half-dozen of Belinda’s best pies to sweeten this day.

“Nurse Mary, I think we should serve them tonight, I wouldn’t want to risk them going astray like the berries did—the boys deserve their treat and all the hard work that went into the making,” Emma said. If it were up to her, Nurse Hastings would not get even a bite but she felt sure Mary would be more equitable. She pursed her pretty mouth; she admired Mary’s sense of justice, but she didn’t always like it.

Mary agreed, “Yes, yes, of course,” and directed the orderlies to the kitchen with their bounty. She went to the boy, prepared to offer him a coin if she could find one, scrip if not, but he declined, “No, ma’am, it’s all done already. I was just to see you got them pies here safe. I hope the soldiers enjoy eatin’ em, they smelled mighty good.”

“Would you stay, then, to have some?” Mary offered, noting the boy’s thin brown wrists, the way the shirt hung from his shoulders, looser from more than just bones growing faster than muscle could match, the look of long hunger.

“No, ma’am, Miz Belinda says I’m to come back, she’s got some errands for me and then she’ll fix me up, she says. She’s a mighty fine cook, Miz Belinda, and she gave me a biscuit afore I even got them pies to carry, said she wouldn’t risk me dropping them all ‘cause I hadn’t the power to carry ‘em. So, I’ll be going now, but I’ll come back, maybe, Mr. Samuel says I might, see if you need any errands run, you just ask for Isaac Watts,” Isaac finished. Mary was pleased to see the fine hand of Belinda in the pies but also the boy’s welfare. He had the look of one without mother, auntie or granny to care for him and Belinda was skilled at all three roles from Emma’s recounting.

The pies and the boy dispatched, Mary and Emma returned to their tasks, the routine chores lightened by the anticipated pleasure. The hours flew ‘til supper and Mary found herself in the kitchen, the pies having been served up to the men amid exclamations of delight and even a few “Hurrahs!” It was a shared joy to see them all, for once, win against the house. Emma had left for home after a happy little handshake, the kind Mary remembered from her own young girlhood, the rainbow thrill of a bosom friend fainter now, but still present. Jed met her in the kitchen as she was busy washing dishes, singing “Das Madchen aus der Fremde” merrily. There was a stack of bowls, still slightly wet, a few bubbles clinging to the crockery’s lip, on the slab beside her. She turned when she heard him, her hands still in the soapy water.

“Jed!”

“Oh, Molly, you cut me to the quick! No ‘Jedediah?’” he said jovially, smiling at this domestic Mary, pink-cheeked and happy. 

“Jedediah, you know better! I think you know better on more than one score—you had those pies made, I see your machinations, you know, you clever boy,” she replied. Jed grinned, gleeful with the success of the pies, using considerable effort to avoid thinking of the machinations she was not aware of. This moment would just be about her sunny face and bright dark eyes.

“Well, then, you were pleased, my Molly? Then it was worth the intrigue and shenanigans, Matron’s demotion of me to ‘boyo,’ all this skullduggery for strawberries. And did you enjoy the pie, sweetheart?” Jed asked, highly entertained.

“I didn’t have any but it looked delicious—it was enough for me to see the boys eating it,” she answered. He shook his head a little—oh, Mary!

“I wish I could convince you to think a little more of yourself. I saw Nurse Hastings enjoying her portion and anyone would agree, she has had more than her share! To be honest, I am not sure how she can even look at another strawberry! But I congratulate myself I know you well enough,” here he paused, and held out his left hand, the palm cradling one strawberry, a cheerful red, quilted over with seeds, a little imperfect but lovely. “I asked Belinda to save a few berries out of the pie, I thought you might not get any otherwise.”

“Oh, but I can’t, the dishes and my hands…” she said, as he had hoped.

“Let me then, Molly,” he replied, just looking at her, seeing a little curl errant over her ear, the elegant line from her earlobe to her clavicle, cut by her lace collar.

“No, I will just finish here, and dry my hands--” she went on, though she fluttered her eyelashes with the skill a Parisian courtesan wielded a fan.

“Let me?” His voice was lower now, the meaning doubled, but he knew she understood them both. She nodded in response. He put the strawberry in her mouth and held his breath as her lips closed around the fruit, his fingers caught, taken by her, released before he could be bitten. She gazed at him. He saw her white throat as she swallowed, then he could not resist and kissed her.

It was perhaps the most awkward kiss he had ever given. She was turned half-away, her hands forgotten in the cooling dishwater and he could not use both hands to steady her, the left stained with the strawberry’s juice. He tasted the fruit in her mouth, felt the warmth of her, the sleek arch of her palate. She made a sound, perhaps his name, then released him with a little twist. He was unsure, he had not asked first and he looked at her chastened.

“I am sorry, I should not have done that,” he apologized. He was relieved her expression was still tender. Mary lifted one hand from the basin, holding a mottled crockery mug, tilted it slightly so the water ran down the sides, through her hand, into the belly of the sink.

“Oh, Jed, my cup runneth over,” she laughed. Startled by her pivot from affection to teasing, he laughed in return at his bright, brilliant Molly. It was a moment when everything felt possible, that he might write Eliza a letter she could accept, that the Union would be preserved as his ended. The boy he’d operated on would see as clearly as before, Puss would always find her dish full of milk, and there would be a day Mary brought him strawberries from their own garden and they would eat them with fresh cream. He would follow her up the stairs to their bed, her dark hair already undone, covering the neat buttons of her bodice. The night would last as long as they liked and they would be happy, even in the grey light of a rainy dawn.

**Author's Note:**

> This story got started when I had the idea of Anne Hastings eating all the strawberries that Emma brought to Mary—I wanted to write something totally goofy and farcical at the beginning, but then it got more serious and I decided to treat it as a “redo” of the Cake Battle Episode, where Mrs. Green and Bullen are embroiled in who can make the best dessert while actual really important stuff is happening. I also wanted to advance my story arc of Mary and Jed and Eliza while developing the other relationships and letting all the Emma/Henry shippers have a moment. Emily Dickinson did me proud again with the title. I hope there are some buried gems throughout for readers who want to find them. And, now onto this story’s overly copious notes—
> 
> Five-card stud is the earliest form of the card game stud poker, originating during the American Civil War,[1] but is less commonly played today than many other more popular poker games. Five card stud, blackjack and beggar-my-neighbour were all popular card games during the Civil War period. Mathematicians have been able to employ math to win both five card stud and blackjack.
> 
> Two types of soprano especially dear to the French are the Dugazon and the Falcon, which are intermediate voice types between the soprano and the mezzo soprano. A Dugazon is a darker-colored soubrette.
> 
> Eleanore Dumont, who showed up in Nevada City, California in the mid-1800’s. She banked and dealt the game of 21 to any takers, and whatever her math talents or card handling skills, enjoyed much success as an expert at the game.
> 
> In the Book of Judges, it is stated that Deborah was a judge of Israel and the wife of Lapidoth[3] (Hebrew: לפידות; the name means "torches"). (Judges 4:4) She rendered her judgments beneath a date palm tree between Ramah in Benjamin and Bethel in the land of Ephraim. (Judges 4:5) Some people today refer to Deborah as the mother of Israel, as she is titled in the Biblical "Song of Deborah and Barak" (Judges 5:7). The people of Israel had been oppressed by Jabin, the king of Canaan, whose capital was Hazor, for twenty years. Stirred by the wretched condition of Israel she incites a rebellion, and sends to Barak, the son of Abinoam, at Kedesh of Naphtali, and directs him to muster ten thousand troops of Naphtali and Zebulun and concentrate them upon Mount Tabor, the mountain at the northern angle of the great plain of Esdraelon.
> 
> Hermann Ludwig Ferdinand von Helmholtz (August 31, 1821 – September 8, 1894) was a German physician and physicist who made significant contributions to several widely varied areas of modern science. In physiology and psychology, he is known for his mathematics of the eye, theories of vision, ideas on the visual perception of space, color vision research, and on the sensation of tone, perception of sound, and empiricism. In physics, he is known for his theories on the conservation of energy, work in electrodynamics, chemical thermodynamics, and on a mechanical foundation of thermodynamics. As a philosopher, he is known for his philosophy of science, ideas on the relation between the laws of perception and the laws of nature, the science of aesthetics, and ideas on the civilizing power of science. In 1851, Helmholtz revolutionized the field of ophthalmology with the invention of the ophthalmoscope; an instrument used to examine the inside of the human eye. This made him world famous overnight.
> 
> Erysipelas (/ɛrᵻˈsɪpələs/; Greek ἐρυσίπελας, "red skin"; also known as "ignis sacer", "holy fire", and "St. Anthony's fire"[1] in some countries) is an acute infection[2] typically with a skin rash, usually on any of the legs and toes, face, arms, and fingers. It is an infection of the upper dermis and superficial lymphatics, usually caused by beta-hemolytic group A Streptococcus bacteria on scratches or otherwise infected areas. Wikipedia has a lengthy list of notable people who died from erysipelas prior to the advent of antibiotics.
> 
> Lied (German pronunciation: [liːt]; plural Lieder [ˈliːdɐ]; German for "song") originally denoted in classical music the setting of Romantic German poems to music, especially during the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Examples include settings by Ludwig van Beethoven and Franz Schubert. Among English speakers, however, "Lied" is often used interchangeably with "art song" to encompass works that the tradition has inspired in other languages. The poems that have been made into Lieder often center on pastoral themes or themes of romantic love. Schubert wrote, among many other lieder, the song "Das Mädchen aus der Fremde" ['In einem Tal bei armen Hirten'] for voice and piano (1814, 1st setting). The lyrics are a poem of Schiller’s which starts:
> 
> The Maiden from Afar (English)  
> Nearby a peasant's humble dwelling  
> Appeared with every fresh new year,  
> Just as the first lark's song was swelling,  
> A maiden, wonderful and fair.


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